


The After-Hours Job

by wintergrey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, F/F, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/pseuds/wintergrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene is hiring a very particular sort of part-time personal assistant. Molly is looking for an after-hours job, and for something, anything, to happen in her quiet little life. Presented without further context or comment for your enjoyment.</p><blockquote>
  <p>Podcast by the marvellous <a href="http://consultingsmartass.tumblr.com/">consultingsmartass</a> located here:<br/><a href="http://www.mediafire.com/listen/zasjbz2dmgadbmm/The+After-Hours+Job.mp3">Listen</a> (mp3)<br/><a href="http://www.mediafire.com/download/zasjbz2dmgadbmm/The+After-Hours+Job.mp3">Download</a> (mp3)</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	The After-Hours Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/gifts).



**_Wanted: Part-Time Personal Assistant. Must be fit, educated, responsible, discreet. Generous compensation for ideal candidate. Women only need apply._ **

****

“Molly Hooper. I’m expected.” She was here because she needed the money, she told herself. Under that, though, she was hoping for something more. For something to happen to her.

“You won’t be needing that, miss.” The—manservant? Molly had no better word for him—nodded at her portfolio. “You may leave it, and your bag, on the table. Your phone as well.”

Molly’s hands were suddenly slick on the oxblood leather she couldn’t afford but had hoped would make a good impression. Leaving her phone behind felt terribly perilous. She chased through what she’d seen of the house from the front. There was a hedge under the front windows that would break her fall if she had to go out that way. _You’re being ridiculous, Mol._

“Of course.” She put the portfolio down on the polished marble top of the antique table, her bag beside it. Her phone was in her bag but she removed it and set it down separately, so it could be seen.

“Miss Hooper.” A woman’s voice, cold as ice and sharp as the crack of a whip. “Do come up. We should discuss your terms.”

****

Molly let the soft strands of a flogger slide through her fingers.

_This is your office. Please think of it as such._

_Should I... should I wear anything special?_

_Wear what you please. I am not hiring you for your fashion sense._

Still. Every job required a uniform. She unbuttoned her cotton blend blouse, let it fall from her shoulders, unfastened the hooks and eyes of her white bra. She refused to feel like a child playing dress-up. Piece by piece she shed Molly Hooper and dressed herself in something new.

_You will require a different name. I will not call you by yours again._

_Do you have a preference?_

_None. I will use whatever you allow._

Her new dress cost more than anything she had ever owned, more than her computer, more than the used Mini she’d used to get to college and back. It was green, silk, and buttoned all the way up under her chin but left her shoulders and arms bare. The hem swirled around her ankles with every step. Molly buttoned it down between her breasts, over her belly, and to the tops of her thighs. The rest, she left undone.

Shoes or boots were out of the question. She wanted to feel the floor under her feet, to ground herself. To feel real. The dress was all she wore, the dress and the pins that held up her hair. Jewelry caught hair, cut skin. Cosmetics would have been a mask but she took out a tube of scarlet lipstick that had set her back the same amount as a week’s groceries and marked her lips with it.

The woman in the mirror was never nervous. Molly faced her, touched her reflection in the glass. She was someone else entirely. Molly never would have known she was there, waiting, except for this. She smiled at the woman and turned away to collect her tools for the task at hand.

****

Irene was waiting for her, naked and damp from a shower, her face bare, her hair hanging loose. She looked older and younger and exhausted all at once. Her body was beautiful. If they had been anywhere else, Molly would have felt ashamed. Intimidated. Because they were here, because that body was hers to do with as she pleased, she was fascinated instead.

She didn’t speak. She cupped one of Irene’s breasts in her palm and weighed it as she would a pear in the marketplace. When she caught the nipple between her thumb and forefinger, Irene shivered. The realization that she could do anything she wanted sparked unexpected fire between Molly’s thighs.

 _This is mine_ , she thought, looking Irene in the eyes. _I can do anything I want_. Irene’s eyes widened, darkened, and her breath caught. _You know what this feels like._

Molly ran her hand down Irene’s belly, feeling the taut muscle under her soft skin, the dip of her belly, the slight swell below it, the silky loops of her pubic hair.

 _Mine_. She kept her eyes locked on Irene’s as she gripped those dense curls, gently, and pulled. Irene rocked in spite the way her bare feet were planted firmly on the floor. _All mine_.

Up until this moment, Molly had been certain this would simply be a case of following the protocols as she did at work. As she always said: _I just follow the steps, it’s nothing special_. There were tools for the job, there was a system, there was a science. _None of it’s me_.

But this was all her. Irene’s flushed cheeks and parted lips were hers. She could discard the rules and make her own, based on her knowledge and observation. She pushed two fingers past those soft curls and into Irene, their passage easy and slick.

Irene’s mouth made a surprised little ‘o’, she came up on her toes and a whimper escaped her. Molly grabbed one of Irene’s nipples with her free hand, tugging her back into place, and was rewarded by the clench of Irene’s cunt around her two fingers.

Irene’s expression was anything but horrified, she stared at Molly as though she were grasping for something to keep from drowning, something she could only find in Molly’s eyes. Molly pushed her fingers in deeper, twisted them, and slickness spread down to her last knuckles. Irene’s breath caught in her throat on inhaling, then it escaped with a low moan.

Molly pulled her fingers free, let go of Irene’s nipple with one last cruel little twist. Irene’s thighs were already shaking, marked where she’d dug her nails into them. Molly licked her fingers clean as she returned to where she’d left her tools. Time to get to work.

****

The single red velvet chair in the centre of the room served well enough as a throne, Molly thought. She certainly felt like a queen. A glimpse of herself in the tall triple mirror across the room confirmed her analysis—she looked regal, chin up, shoulders back.

Irene looked nothing like the elegant mistress who had presented Molly with a contract to sign two weeks ago. She knelt before Molly’s throne, wrists cuffed to her thighs, lips forced into that pretty, surprised ‘o’ by the ring gag in her mouth. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks blotchy, the tip of her nose red.

Still, to Molly, she was beautiful. Of course she was. She was Molly’s.

“I want to play with you,” Molly said slowly. She twirled a slim oxblood leather crop between her fingers. “Stand up.”

Irene rose with surprising grace. Molly thought to take that away from her next time. Perhaps a spreader bar between the ankles. Or the knees. She tapped her lower lip with the crop, thinking. The crop was hers and hers alone, nothing like Irene’s. She had selected it for that purpose—it was delicate and cruel, the colour of dried blood.

Molly rose, letting the hem of her dress fall back around her ankles. The velvet was crushed where her bare bottom and thighs had pressed into it, a small dark patch marred the centre. She had lifted her dress to sit for just that reason, so as not to stain the silk with her arousal. She took Irene by the hair, casually, as though she were moving a book or a vase, and drew her forward and down until her face pressed into the seat.

Irene’s pale ass rose in the air as she rocked awkwardly, trying to find her balance. She was completely exposed like this, breasts dangling, vulva open to the cool air.

Molly saw as much as heard her whimper when it ran through her. She stopped admiring Irene’s body, turned back to see Irene nuzzling into the damp spot on the seat.

“That’s going to stain,” Molly said sternly, as though it were Irene’s fault. In a way, it was. “I want you to clean it off.” Irene’s tongue was a brief flash of pink against the red velvet. “Try harder. I want you to pretend it’s my cunt you’re eating.”

Irene pressed her mouth into the cushion, stifling the noises she was making. Molly didn’t need to hear them, she could see how hard Irene’s nipples were, how her skin was ridged with a chill. Her eyes were screwed shut, her cheeks nearly as red as the chair.

“Make me come,” Molly ordered. She brought the crop down across the pearly curve of Irene’s ass. Irene jerked, nearly pitching forward. She caught her balance at the last minute and Molly hit her again before she was steady.

Irene was accustomed to control. Control of others. Control of herself. Molly’s job was to take all that away from her. She beat Irene with measured strokes, shifting from one side to the other, dress swirling as she moved. In the mirror, the woman Molly hadn’t known she was looked as though she was dancing. She striped Irene’s ass and thighs with red welts, painting an abstract pattern like an artist.

Milky fluid beaded between the swollen lips of Irene’s sex, her hips tipped up, begging. She stepped her feet apart, spreading herself open further, and Molly painted the insides of her thighs with red streaks. Irene’s cries were too loud to be silenced by the velvet chair now. Molly flicked the tip of the crop against Irene’s vulva and her whole body convulsed.

Next time, she thought, she might bring out a strap-on. The idea of taking Irene from behind was overwhelmingly delicious. She struck Irene between the thighs again and again, careful strokes that made Irene shake and buck so that the chair scraped back against the floor.

“No.” Molly grabbed Irene by the hair and hauled her up, then left her to to stand or fall as she would. Somehow, Irene remained standing. The dark spot on the chair was the size of a saucer now. Molly gathered her dress around her hips and took her rightful place again. “If you can’t do it right, you’ll just have to make sure to stop the stain at the source.”

Irene looked as though she’d been crying, down to a glossy streak of mucus from one nostril to her upper lip. Her breath came in ragged sobs and she pressed her thighs together as though trying to keep from wetting herself. Molly knew better and shoved the crop into the narrow gap at the apex of Irene’s thighs.

“Don’t you dare try to come.” That would ruin Molly’s calculations. She withdrew the crop only when she saw Irene’s thighs loosen. “On your knees. I want them apart.” Molly spread her legs apart, one over each arm of the chair. “Clean me up. Make me come.” The velvet soaked with Irene’s saliva was cool against her ass.

Irene knelt clumsily, legs shaking. There was no hesitation in her, though, and she did as she was told. Molly pulled her dress up slowly to unveil herself, then she unsnapped Irene’s gag and threw it aside.

“What do you say, Irene?”

“Please.” Irene’s voice was unsteady as her legs.

“Please what?”

“Please, m—“ She stopped, lost. Molly simply waited. “Please, my lady,” Irene said at last.

My lady. Molly liked the sound of that a great deal. She spread herself open for Irene with the fingers of her free hand. With the other, she tapped Irene’s cheek with the crop.

“Do a good job.”

Irene’s mouth was hot, she was skilled at using it. Almost more pleasurable than being brought off by her lips and tongue was watching her do it, hearing her do it. Soft, wet sounds between gasps and whimpers, eyes shut tight, lashes wet with unshed tears. Molly grabbed her hair and pushed her head down, pulled it close until Irene’s tongue invaded her. She held Irene there until she was shuddering with need, then dragged Irene’s mouth back to her clitoris and ground against her.

Coming was revelatory. No one had made Molly feel this good before, ever. Heels on the arms of the chair, shoulders braced against the back, she rode Irene—silently, this was her orgasm, not Irene’s—until she couldn’t bear the pleasure any more. Then, she tugged Irene’s head back.  

“Stand,” she ordered, forcing her voice steady.

There was no grace in the way Irene stood this time. She struggled up, keeping her knees apart. Her shoulders slumped, her hair swung around her face like black rags, her chin fell to her chest as she sniffled and dragged in air. Molly arranged herself neatly, smoothing down her skirt. When she was done, when she’d patted her hair back into place, she tapped Irene’s thigh with her crop.

“You will come now.”

The cuffs were too short to let Irene touch herself. She pressed her knees together again, clawing at her thighs. She rocked and twisted, gasping aloud in frustration. She tossed her head, lashing her shoulders with her hair, breasts swaying. Her wail of anger bounced around the room and she sobbed once.

“What do you say, Irene?”

“Please.”  

“What else?”

“Please, my lady.” Irene clenched her thighs again, moaning.

“Use all your words, Irene. What do you—“ Molly left it hanging.

Irene stared at her a long moment, mouth slack, eyes despairing. When she spoke, the words crawled out over something broken in her chest. “I need you to help me, my lady.”

“Good girl.” Molly pushed her free hand between Irene’s thighs, curling three fingers into her and letting the heel of it rub against Irene’s clitoris. She knew how lovely it could be to hear those two words from someone in control. “I’m always happy to help you.”

Irene gulped and whined as she hunched against Molly’s hand. Her breasts jiggled wildly, she was graceless with desperation. Molly’s hand was slick from heel to fingertips, the palm pooled with fluid. She felt Irene’s orgasm hit with a flood of fresh wetness, and Irene screamed. She came endlessly, rocking against Molly’s palm with one orgasm after another that wrung shrieks and cries out of her throat. By the end, Molly’s hand under her held her up as much as her own legs.

“Thank you,” Irene whispered. “My lady. Thank you.”

“Well done, Irene.” Molly set the crop aside to undo her restraints. She helped Irene over to the bed, wrapped her in a soft robe hung nearby, and guided her to lie down with her head on the pillows.

Irene yielded like an exhausted child, curling up with her hands folded between her knees. Molly tucked her in.

“I’ll return next week as planned,” she promised.

“Thank you, my lady.” It was barely audible.

Irene was asleep by the time Molly left the room.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The After-Hours Job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076034) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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